Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“What do dresses have to do with anything?” I ask.
“The Cinderella complex,” Ian chimes in as he adds weight to the rack.
I stare at him, then Kennedy. “The what now?”
“You know.” Kennedy waves his hand impatiently. “The whole princess-ball thing. Fancy dresses, chandeliers. Dancing.”
“What the hell do you two watch in your downtime? How about more sports, less Disney Channel?”
Ian shrugs and steps into the rack. “Fine. Go ahead and risk it.”
I grimace, because the scene they just described is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.
“Unless . . . ,” Kennedy says.
I glance at him. “I’ll take an unless. What’ve you got?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll like anything better than your Snow White scenario.”
“Cinderella,” Ian corrects.
“Whatever. Kennedy, talk to me.”
Instead of answering, Kennedy looks at Ian, and I know these two guys well enough to know that whatever they’re about to launch at me, it’s been their plan all along.
“Shit. What?” I say impatiently.
“You need someone to play along who has zero risk of emotional entanglements,” Ian says slowly.
I roll my finger to speed him along. “Yes, we’ve covered that. You know someone?”
“We all know her,” Ian says, holding my gaze.
The answer hits me like a kick to the balls.
Sabrina Cross.
Ian’s friend since childhood, Sabrina’s an annoying constant in our social circle.
My friends are right. She is the last woman on earth to be at risk of falling for me. Because Sabrina Cross hates my guts.
4
SABRINA
Tuesday Night, September 19
Quiet nights at home are rare in my line of work. More often than not, I’m in four-inch heels and a little black dress at fancy fund-raisers, cocktail parties, or expensive dinners.
In other words, nights out on the town? Part of the job. People think they’re paying me big money to solve their problems, and technically they are, but what they’re really paying for are my connections and how well I know people.
Name a judge: I know her favorite type of French wine. Name an attorney: I know his phone number and his niece’s birthday. Name a socialite: I can give you a list of every person she’s ever dated. Name a hedge fund manager: I can tell you the name of his wife and his mistress.
I don’t have a little black book; I’ve got an entire encyclopedia, and there’s nothing little about it.
The point is, a night to myself is rare, and when they come up, I go all in. Yoga pants, fuzzy socks, oversize sweatshirt, messy bun, Norah Jones on the speakers, the works.
Normally I pour myself a big old glass of red wine and settle in for a movie, and though a movie’s still on the agenda, I’m not feeling the red wine vibe tonight. It feels like a cocktail kind of evening.
I feed my dog, Juno, and begin setting out the makings for an ice-cold martini, when someone knocks on my front door, setting Juno into a barking frenzy.
I scrunch my nose at the interruption. Not only because I’m not expecting anyone, and I hate the unexpected, but because I live in a high-rise on the Upper East Side where the doormen look like bouncers. Nobody gets up here without being on a resident’s preapproved list. I can count the number of people on my list on one hand, and none of them is expected tonight.
Going to the door, I check the peephole, assuming it’ll be someone who knocked on the wrong door by accident.
I groan, because it’s so much worse than an accident.
I purse my lips and consider my options. I could pretend I’m not here, but remember before when I said that I know people?
Well, I know this guy better than most. He’s relentless. And he will wait me out.
Giving in to the inevitable, I open my front door, not bothering to hold Juno back from throwing her considerable weight at Matt Cannon.
Instead of looking annoyed by the eighty pounds of Lab / Rottweiler mix getting fur all over his thousand-dollar suit, Matt bends down and gives Juno an affectionate rubdown. “Hey, girl.”
I lean against the doorjamb, begrudging my dog her poor taste in character. “How’d you get in here?”
Juno rolls onto her back, tongue lolling out, belly up, and Matt obliges, scratching the dog like they’re old friends. “Doorman let me up.”
“You’re not on the list.”
“You sure about that?” he says with a grin. Then he looks up at me and does a double take at my appearance. “Whoa. Has it finally happened? Have you finally run out of skin-tight dresses and high heels?”
“What did you think, I slept in a push-up bra and Louboutins?”
His grin shifts from playful to seductive. “I know firsthand that you don’t.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying that in the few times he’s seen me in my bra—and out of it—we don’t exactly do much sleeping.